 8. Within a few days after this, the autumn term came to an end, and in the second week of December, John returned to Worth Maltrowers for the Christmas vacation. His advent was always a very great pleasure to me, and on this occasion I had looked forward to his company with anticipation keener than usual, as I had been disappointed of the visit of a friend and had spent the last month alone. After the joy of our first meeting had somewhat sobered, it was not long before I remarked a change in his manner which puzzled me. It was not that he was less kind to me, for I think he was even more tenderly forbearing and gentle than I had ever known him, but I had an uneasy feeling that some shadow had crept in between us. It was the small cloud rising in the distance that afterwards darkened his horizon and mine. I missed the old candor and open-hearted frankness that he had always shown, and there seemed to be always something in the background which he was trying to keep from me. It was obvious that his thoughts were constantly elsewhere, so much so that on more than one occasion he returned vague and incoherent answers to my questions. At times I was content to believe that he was in love and that his thoughts were with misconstance temple, but even so I could not persuade myself that his altered manner was to be thus entirely accounted for. At other times a days there, entirely foreign to his bright disposition, which I observed particularly in the morning, raised in my mind the terrible suspicion that he was in the habit of taking some secret narcotic or other deleterious drug. We had never spent a Christmas away from worth-mall troubles, and it had always been a season of quiet joy for both of us. But under these altered circumstances it was a great relief and cause of thankfulness to me to receive a letter from Mrs. Temple inviting us both to spend Christmas and New Year at Royston. This invitation had upon my brother precisely the effect that I had hoped for. It roused him from his moody condition, and he professed much pleasure in accepting it, especially as he had never hitherto been in Derbyshire. There was a small but very agreeable party at Royston, and we passed a most enjoyable fort night. My brother seemed thoroughly to have shaken off his in-disposition, and I saw my fondest hopes realized in the warm attachment which was evidently springing up between him and misconstance temple. Our visit drew near its close, and it was within a week of John's return to Oxford. Mrs. Temple celebrated the termination of the Christmas festivities by giving a ball on the twelfth night at which a large party were present, including most of the county families. Royston was admirably adapted for such entertainments from the number and great size of its reception rooms. Though Elizabethan in date and external appearance, succeeding generations had much modified and enlarged the house, and an ancestor in the middle of the last century had built at the back an enormous hall after the classic model, and covered it with a dome or cupola. In this room the dancing went forward. Supper was served in the older hall in the front, and it was while this was in progress that a thunderstorm began. The rarity of such a phenomenon in the depth of winter formed the subject of general remark. But though the lightning was extremely brilliant, being seen distinctly through the curtain windows, the storm appeared to be at some distance, and except for one peal, the thunder was not loud. After Supper dancing was resumed, and I was taking part in a polka, called I remember the King Pippin, when my partner pointed out that one of the footmen wished to speak with me. I begged him to lead me to one side, and the servant then informed me that my brother was ill. Sir John, he said, had been seized with a fainting fit, but had been got to bed, and was being attended by Dr. Emson, a physician who chanced to be present among the visitors. I at once left the hall and hurried to my brother's room. On the way I met Mrs. Templeton and Constance, the latter much agitated and in tears. Mrs. Templon assured me that Dr. Emson reported favorably of my brother's condition, attributing his faintness to overexertion in the dancing room. The medical man had got him to bed with the assistance of Sir John's valet, had given him a quieting draught, and ordered that he should not be disturbed for the present. It was better that I should not enter the room. She begged that I would kindly comfort and reassure Constance, who was much upset, while she herself returned to her gas. I led Constance to my bedroom where there was a bright fire burning, and calmed her as best I could. Her interest in my brother was evidently very real and unaffected, and while not admitting her partiality for him in words, she made no effort to conceal her sentiments from me. I kissed her tenderly and bade her narrate the circumstances of John's attack. It seemed that after supper they had gone upstairs into the music room, and he had himself proposed that they should walk fence into the picture gallery, where they would better be able to see the lightning, which was then particularly vivid. The picture gallery at Royston is a very long, narrow, and rather low room, running the whole length of the south wing and terminating in a large two-door orial, or flat bay window looking east. In this orial they had sat for some time watching the flashes, and the wintry landscape revealed for an instant, and then plunged into outer blackness. The gallery itself was not illuminated, and the effect of the lightning was very fine. There had been an unusually bright flash accompanied by that single reverberating peel of thunder which I had previously noticed. Constance had spoken to my brother, but he had not replied, and in a moment she saw that he had swooned. She summoned aid without delay, but it was some short time before consciousness had been restored to him. She had concluded this narrative and sat holding my hand in hers. We were speculating on the cause of my brother's illness, thinking it might be due to overexertion or to sitting in a chilly atmosphere as the picture gallery was not warmed. When Mrs. Temple knocked at the door and said that John was now more composed and desired earnestly to see me, on entering my brother's bedroom I found him sitting up in bed wearing a dressing gown. Parnam, his valet who was arranging the fire, left the room as I came in. A chair stood at the head of the bed, and I sat down by him. He took my hand in his and, without a word, burst into tears. Sophie, he said, I am so unhappy, and I have sent for you to tell you of my trouble, because I know you will be forbearing to me. An hour ago all seemed so bright. I was sitting in the picture gallery with Constance, whom I loved dearly. We had been watching the lightning, till the thunder had grown fainter and the storms seemed past. I was just about to ask her to become my wife, when a brighter flash than all the rest burst on us, and I saw Sophie standing in the gallery as close to me as you are now. I saw that man, I told you about it, Oxford, and then this faintness came on me. Whom do you mean? I said, not understanding what he spoke of, and thinking for a moment he referred to someone else. Did you see Mr. Gaskell? No, it was not he, but that dead man whom I saw rising from my wicker chair the night you went away from Oxford. You will perhaps smile at my weakness, my dear Edward, and indeed I had at that time no justification for it, but I assure you that I have not yet forgotten and never shall forget the impression of overwhelming horror which his words produced upon me. It seemed as though a fear which had hitherto stood vague and shadowy in the background began now to advance towards me, gathering more distinctness as it approached. There was to me something morbidly terrible about the apparition of this man at such a momentous crisis in my brother's life, and I at once recognized that unknown form as being the shadow which was gradually stealing between John and myself. Though I feigned in credulity, as best I might, and employed those arguments or platitudes which will always be used on such occasions, urging that such a phantom could only exist in a mind disordered by physical weakness, my brother was not deceived by my words and perceived in a moment that I did not even believe in them myself. Dear Essofi, he said, with a much calmer air, let us put aside all dissimulation. I know that what I have tonight seen and that what I saw last summer at Oxford are not phantoms of my brain, and I believe that you too in your unmost soul are convinced of this truth. Do not, therefore, endeavor to persuade me to the contrary. If I am not to believe the evidence of my senses, it were better at once to admit my madness, and I know that I am not mad. Let us rather consider what such an appearance can portend, and who the man is who is thus presented. I cannot explain to you why this appearance inspires me with so great a revulsion. I can only say that in its presence I seem to be brought face to face with some abysmal and repellent wickedness. It is not that the form he wears is hideous. Last night I saw him exactly as I saw him make Oxford. His face wax and pale with a sneering mouth, the same lofty forehead, and the hair brushed straight up so as almost to appear standing on end. He wore the same long coat of green cloth and white waistcoat. He seemed as if he had been standing listening to what we said, though we had not seen him till this bright flash of lightning made him manifest. You will remember that when I saw him at Oxford, his eyes were always cast down so that I never knew their color. This time they were wide open. Indeed he was looking full-attice, and they were a light brown and very brilliant. I saw that my brother was exciting himself and was still weak from his recent swoon. I knew too that any ordinary person of strong mind would say at once that his brain wandered, and yet I had a dreadful conviction all the while that what he told me was the truth. All I could do was to beg him to calm himself and to reflect how vain such fancies must be. We must trust, dear John, I said, in God. I am sure that so long as we are not living in conscious sin we shall never be given over to any evil power. And I know my brother too well to think that he is doing anything he knows to be evil. If there be evil spirits, as we are taught there are, we are taught also that there are good spirits, stronger than they, who will protect us. So I spoke with him a little while until he grew calmer. And then we talked of Constance and of his love for her. He was deeply pleased to hear from me how she had shown such obvious signs of interest in his illness and sincere affection for him. In any case, he made me promise that I would never mention to her either what he had seen this night or last summer at Oxford. It had grown late, and the undulating beat of the dances which had been distinctly sensible in his room, even though we could not hear any definite noise, had now ceased. Mrs. Temple knocked at the door as she went to bed and inquired how he did, giving him at the same time a kind message of sympathy from Constance, which afforded him much gratification. After she had left I prepared also to retire. But before going he begged me to take a prayer book lying on the table and to read aloud a collect which he pointed out. It was that for the second Sunday in Lent, and evidently well known to him. As I read it the words seemed to bear a new and deeper significance, and my heart repeated with fervor the petition for protection from those evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul. I bade him good night, and went away very sorrowful. Parnam, at John's request, had arranged to sleep on a sofa in his master's bedroom. I rose be times the next morning and inquired at my brother's room how he was. Parnam reported that he had passed a restless night, and on entering a little later I found him in a high fever, slightly delirious, and evidently not so well as when I saw him last. Mrs. Temple, with much kindness and forethought, had begged Dr. Emson to remain at Royston for the night, and he was soon in attendance on his patient. His verdict was sufficiently grave. John was suffering from a sharp access of brain fever. His condition afforded cause for alarm. He could not answer for any turn his sickness might take. You will easily imagine how much disintelligence affected me, and Mrs. Temple and Constance shared my anxiety and solicitude. Constance and I talked much with one another that morning. Unaffected anxiety had largely removed her reserve, and she spoke openly of her feelings towards my brother, not concealing her partiality for him. I, on my part, let her understand how welcome to me would be any union between her and John, and how sincerely I should value her as a sister. It was a wild winter's morning, with some snow falling and a high wind. The house was in the disordered condition, which is generally observable on the day following a ball or other important festivity. I roamed restlessly about, and at last found my way to the picture gallery, which had formed the scene of John's adventure on the previous night. I had never been in this part of the house before, as it contained no facilities for heating, and so often remained shut in the winter months. I found a listless pleasure in admiring the pictures which lined the walls, most of them being portraits of former members of the family, including the famous picture of Sir Ralph Temple and his family, attributed to Holbein. I had reached the end of the gallery and sat down in the orial, watching the snowflakes falling sparsely, and the evergreens below me waving wildly in the sudden rushes of the wind. My thoughts were busy with the events of the previous evening, with John's illness, with the ball, and I found myself humming the air of a waltz that had caught my fancy. At last I turned away from the garden scene towards the gallery, and as I did so my eyes fell on a remarkable picture just opposite to me. It was a full-length portrait of a young man, life-size, and I had barely time to appreciate even its main features when I knew that I had before me the painted counterfeit of my brother's vision. The discovery caused me a violent shock, and it was with an infinite repulsion that I recognized at once the features and dress of the man whom John had seen rising from the chair at Oxford, so accurately had my brother's imagination described him to me that it seemed as if I had myself seen him often before. I noted each feature comparing them with my brother's description, and finding them all familiar and corresponding exactly. He was a man still in the prime of life. His features were regular and beautifully modeled, yet there was something in his face that inspired me with a deeper version, though his brown eyes were open and brilliant. His mouth was sharply cut with a slight sneer on the lips, and his complexion of that extreme power which had impressed itself deeply on my brother's imagination and my own. After the first intense surprise had somewhat subsided I experienced a feeling of great relief, for here was an extraordinary explanation of my brother's vision of last night. It was certain that the flash of lightning had lit up this ill-starred picture, and that to his predisposed fancy the painted figure had stood forth as an actual embodiment. That such an incident, however startling, should have been able to fling John into a brain fever, showed that he must already have been in a very low and reduced state on which excitement would act much more powerfully than on a more robust condition of health. A similar state of weakness perturbed by the excitement of his passion for Constance Temple might surely also have conjured up the vision which he thought he saw the night of our leaving Oxford in the summer. These thoughts, my dear Edward, gave me great relief, for it seemed a comparatively trivial matter that my brother should be ill, even seriously ill, if only his physical indisposition could explain away this supernatural dread which had haunted us for the past six months, if clouds were breaking up. It was evident that John had been seriously unwell for some months. His physical weakness had acted on his brain, and I had lent color to his wandering fancies by being alarmed by them instead of rejecting them at once, or gently laughing them away as I should have done. But these glad thoughts took me too far, and I was suddenly brought up by a reflection that did not admit of so simple an explanation. If the man's form, my brother saw at Oxford, were merely an effort of disordered imagination, how was it that he had been able to describe it exactly like that represented in this picture? He had never in his life been to Royston. Therefore he could have no image of the picture impressed unconsciously on or hidden away in his mind. Yet his description had never varied. It had been so close as to enable me to produce in my fancy a vivid representation of the man he had seen, and here I had before me the features and dress exactly reproduced. In the presence of a coincidence so extraordinary, reason stood confounded, and I knew not what to think. I walked nearer to the picture and scrutinized it closely. The dress corresponded in every detail with that which my brother had described the figure as wearing at Oxford, a long cutaway coat of green cloth with an edge of gold embroidery, a white satin waistcoat with sprigs of embroidered roses, gold lace at the pocket holes, buff silk knee-bridges, and low down on the finely modeled neck, a full cravat of rich lace. The figure was posed negligently against a fluted stone pedestal or short column on which the left elbow leaned, and the right foot was crossed lightly over the left. His shoes were a polished black leather with heavy silver buckles, and the whole costume was very old-fashioned, and such as I had only seen worn at fancy dress balls. On the foot of the pedestal was the painter's name, Batoni Pincet Rome 1750. On the top of the pedestal and under his left elbow was a long roll, apparently of music, of which one end, unfolded, hung over the edge. For some minutes I stood still, gazing at this portrait, which so much astonished me, but turned on hearing footsteps in the gallery and saw Constance, who had come to seek for me. Constance, I said, whose portrait is this? It is a very striking picture, is it not? Yes, it is a splendid painting, though of a very bad man. His name was Adrian Temple, and he once owned Royston. I do not know much about him, but I believe he was very wicked and very clever. My mother would be able to tell you more. It is a picture we none of us like, although so finely painted, and perhaps because he was always pointed out to me from childhood as a bad man, I have myself an aversion to it. It is singular that when the very bright flash of lightning came last night while your brother John and I were sitting here, it lit this picture with a dazzling glare that made the figure stand out so strangely as to seem almost alive. It was just after that that I found that John had fainted. The memory was not a pleasant one for either of us, and we changed the subject. Come, I said, let us leave the gallery. It is very cold here. Though I said nothing more at the time, her words had made a great impression on me. It was so strange that even with the little she knew of this Adrian Temple she should speak at once of his notoriously evil life and of her personal dislike to the picture. Remembering what my brother had said on the previous night, that in the presence of this man he felt himself brought face to face with some indescribable wickedness, I could not but be surprised at the coincidence. The whole story seemed to me now to resemble one of those puzzle pictures or maps which I had played with as a child, where each bit fits into some other until the outline is complete. It was as if I were finding the pieces one by one of a bygone history, and fitting them to one another until some terrible whole should be gradually built up and stand out in its complete deformity. Dr. Empson spoke gravely of John's illness, and entertained without reluctance the proposal of Mrs. Temple that Dr. Dobie, a celebrated physician in Derby, should be summoned to a consultation. Dr. Dobie came more than once, and was at last able to report an amendment in John's condition, though both doctors absolutely forbade anyone to visit him, and said that under the most favorable circumstances a period of some weeks must elapse before he could be moved. Mrs. Temple invited me to remain at Royston until my brother should be sufficiently convalescent to be moved, and both she and Constance, while regretting the cause, were good enough to express themselves pleased that accident should detain me so long with them. As the reports of the doctors became gradually more favorable, and our minds were in consequence more free to turn to other subjects, I spoke to Mrs. Temple one day about the picture, saying that it interested me in asking for some particulars as to the life of Adrian Temple. My dear child, she said, I had rather that you should not exhibit any curiosity as to this man, whom I wish that we had not to call an ancestor. I know little of him myself, and indeed his life was of such a nature as no woman, much less a young girl, would desire to be well acquainted with. He was, I believe, a man of remarkable talent, and spent most of his time between Oxford and Italy, though he visited Royston occasionally, and built the large hall here which we use as a dancing-room. Before he was 20, wild stories were prevalent as to his licentious life, and by 30 his name was a byword among sober and upright people. He had constantly with him at Hawksford, and on his travels a boon companion called Jocelyn, who aided him in his wickednesses until, on one of their Italian tours, Jocelyn left him suddenly and became a trappist monk. It was currently reported that some wild deed of Adrian Temple had shocked even him, and so outraged his surviving instincts of common humanity that he was snatched as a brand from the burning, and enabled to turn back even in the full tide of his wickedness. However that may be, Adrian went on in his evil course without him, and about four years after disappeared. He was last heard of in Naples, and it is believed that he succumbed during a violent outbreak of the plague which took place in Italy in the autumn of 1752. That is all I shall tell you of him, and indeed I know little more myself. The only good trait that has been handed down concerning him is that he was a masterly musician, performing admirably upon the violin which he had studied under the illustrious Tartini himself. Yet even his art of music, if tradition speaks the truth, was put by him to the basest of uses. I apologize for my indiscretion in asking her about an unpleasant subject, and at the same time thanked her for what she had seen fit to tell me, professing myself much interested, as indeed I really was. Was he a handsome man? That is a girl's question, she answered smiling. He is said to have been very handsome, and indeed his picture painted after his first youth was passed would still lead one to supposo, but his complexion was spoiled, it is said, and turned to deadly white by certain experiments which it is neither possible nor seemly for us to understand. His face is of that long oval shape of which all the temples are proud, and he had brown eyes. We sometimes tease Constance, saying she is like Adrian. It was indeed true, as I remembered after Mrs. Temple had pointed it out, that Constance had a peculiarly long and oval face. It gave her, I think, an air of stade and placid beauty, which formed in my eyes, and perhaps in John's also one of her greatest attractions. I do not like even his picture, Mrs. Temple continued, and strange tales have been narrated of it by idle servants which are not worth repeating. I have sometimes thought of destroying it, but my late husband, being at Temple, would never hear of this, or even of removing it from its present place in the gallery, and I should be loath to do anything now contrary to his wishes, once so strongly expressed. It is, besides, very perfect from an artistic point of view. Being painted by Betoni and in his happiest manner, I could never glean more from Mrs. Temple, but what she told me interested me deeply. It seemed another link in the chain, though I could scarcely tell why that Adrian Temple should be so great a musician and violinist. I had, I fancy, a dim idea of that malign and outlawed spirit sitting alone in darkness for a hundred years until he was called back by the sweet tones of the Italian music and the lilt of the Arrio Paghita that he had loved so long ago. CHAPTER IX OF THE LOST STRATEVERIUS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ralph Snelson. THE LOST STRATEVERIUS by John Mead Faulkner CHAPTER IX John's recovery, though continuous and satisfactory, was but slow, and it was not until Easter which fell early that his help was pronounced to be entirely re-established. The last few weeks of his convalescence had proved to all of us a time of thankful and tranquil enjoyment. If I may judge, from my own experience, there are few epics in our life more favorable to the growth of sentiments of affection and piety, or more full of pleasurable content, than is the period of gradual recovery from serious illness. The chastening effect of our recent sickness has not yet passed away, and we are at once grateful to our Creator for preserving us and to our friends for the countless acts of watchful kindness, which it is the peculiar property of illness to evoke. No mother ever nursed a son more tenderly than did Mrs. Temple nurse my brother, and before his restoration to health was complete, the attachment between him and Constance had ripened into a formal betrothal. Such an alliance was, as I have before explained, particularly suitable, and its prospect afforded the most lively pleasure to all those concerned. The month of March had been unusually mild, and Royston, being situated in a valley, as is the case with most houses of that date, was well sheltered from cold winds. It had moreover a south aspect, and as my brother gradually gathered strength, Constance and he and I would often sit out of doors in the soft spring mornings. We put an easy chair with many cushions for him on the gravel by the front door, where the warmth of the sun was reflected from the red brick walls, and he would at times read aloud to us while we were engaged with our crochet work. Mr. Tennyson had just published anonymously a first volume of poems and the sober dignity of his verse well suited an hour frame of mind at that time. The memory of those pleasant spring mornings, my dear Edward, has not yet passed away, and I can still smell the sweet moist scent of the violets, and see the bright colors of the crocus flowers in the parterre in front of us. John's mind seemed to be gathering strength with his body. He had apparently flung off the cloud which had overshadowed him before his illness and avoided entirely any reference to those unpleasant events which had been previously so constantly in his thoughts. I had indeed taken an early opportunity of telling him of my discovery of the picture of Adrian Temple, as I thought it would tend to show him that at least the last appearance of this ghostly form admitted of a rational explanation. He seemed glad to hear of this, but did not exhibit the same interest in the matter that I had expected and allowed it at once to drop. Whether through lack of interest or from a lingering dislike to revisit the spot where he was seized with illness, he did not, I believe, once enter the picture gallery before he left Royston. I cannot say as much for myself. The picture of Adrian Temple exerted a curious fascination over me, and I constantly took an opportunity of studying it. It was indeed a beautiful work, and perhaps because John's recovery gave a more cheerful tone to my thoughts, or perhaps from the power of custom to dull even the keenest antipathies, I gradually got to lose much of the feeling of a version which it had at first inspired. In time the unpleasant look grew less unpleasing, and I noticed more the beautiful oval of the face, the brown eyes, and the fine chiseling of the features. Sometimes, too, I felt a deep pity for so clever a gentleman who had died young and whose life were at ever so wicked must often have been also lonely and bitter. More than once I had been discovered by Mrs. Temple or Constance sitting looking at the picture, and they had gently laughed at me as saying that I had fallen in love with Adrian Temple. One morning in early April when the sun was streaming brightly through the oriel and the picture received a fuller light than usual, it occurred to me to examine closely the scroll of music painted as hanging over the top of the pedestal on which the figure leaned. I had hitherto thought that the signs depicted on it were merely such as painters might conventionally use to represent a piece of musical notation. This has generally been the case, I think, in such pictures as I have ever seen in which a piece of music has been introduced. I mean that while the painting gives a general representation of the musical staves, no attempt is ever made to paint any definite notes such as would enable an actual piece to be identified. Though, as I write this, I do remember that on the monument to Handel in Westminster Abbey there is represented a musical scroll similar to that in Adrian Temple's picture, but actually sculptured with the opening phrase of the majestic melody, I Know That My Redeemer Libbeth. On this morning, then, at Royston, I thought I perceived that there were painted on the scroll actual musical staves, bars, and notes, and my interest being excited I stood upon a chair so as better to examine them. Though time had somewhat obscured this portion of the picture, as with a veil or film, yet I made out that the painter had intended to depict some definite piece of music. In another moment I saw that the air represented consistent of the opening bars of the gogliarda in the suite by Graziani, with which my brother and I were so well acquainted. Though I believe that I had not seen the volume of music in which that piece was contained more than twice, yet the melody was very familiar to me, and I had no difficulty whatever in making myself sure that I had here before me the air of the gogliarda and none other. It was true that it was only roughly painted, but to one who knew the tune there was no room left for doubt. Here was a new cause, I will not say for surprise, but for reflection. It might, of course, have been merely a coincidence that the artist should have chosen to paint in this picture this particular piece of music, but it seemed more probable that it had actually been a favorite air of Adrian Temple, and that he had chosen deliberately to have it represented with him. This discovery I kept entirely to myself, not thinking it wise to communicate it to my brother lest by doing so I might reawaken his interest in a subject which I hoped he had finally dismissed from his thoughts. In the second week of April the happy party at Royston was dispersed. John, returning to Oxford for the summer term, misses Temple making a short visit to Scotland, and Constance coming to Worth Miltrovers to keep me company for a while. It was John's last term at Oxford. He expected to take his degree in June, and his marriage with Constance Temple had been provisionally arranged for the September following. He returned to Macdalen Hall in the best of spirits, and found his rooms looking cheerful, with well filled flower boxes in the windows. I shall not detain you with any long narration of the events of the term, as they have no relation to the present history. I will only say that I believe my brother applied himself diligently to his studies, and took his amusement mostly on horseback, riding two horses which he had had sent to him from Worth Miltrovers. About the second week after his return he received a letter from Mr. George Smart to the effect that the Stradivarius violin was now in complete order. Subsequent examination Mr. Smart wrote, and the unanimous verdict of connoisseurs whom he had consulted, had merely confirmed the views he had at first expressed, namely that the violin was of the finest quality, and that my brother had in his possession a unique and intact example of Stradivarius's best period. He had had it properly strung, and as the base bar had never been moved, and was of a stronger nature than that usual at the period of its manufacture, he had considered it unnecessary to replace it. If any sign should become visible of its being inadequate to support the tension of modern stringing, another could be easily substituted for it at a later date. He had allowed a young German virtuoso to play on it, and though this gentleman was one of the first living performers, and had had an opportunity of handling many splendid instruments, he assured Mr. Smart that he had never performed on one that could in any way compare with this. My brother wrote in reply, thanking him, and begging that the violin might be sent to Magdalen Hall. The pleasant musical evenings, however, which John had formerly been used to spend in the company of Mr. Gaskell, were now entirely pre-termitted. For though there was no cause for any diminution of friendship between them, and though on Mr. Gaskell's part there was an ardent desire to maintain their former intimacy, yet the two young men saw less and less of one another until their intercourse was confined to an accidental greeting in the street. I believe that during all this time my brother played very frequently on the Stradivarius violin, but always alone. Its very possessions seemed to have engendered from the first in his mind a secretive tendency which, as I have already observed, was entirely alien to his real disposition. As he had concealed its discovery from his sister, so he had also from his friend, and Mr. Gaskell remained in complete ignorance of the existence of such an instrument. On the evening of its arrival from London, John seems to have carefully unpacked the violin and tried it with a new bow of tortoise make which he had purchased of Mr. Smart. He had shut the heavy outside door of his room before beginning to play so that no one might enter unawares, and he told me afterwards that though he had naturally expected from the instrument a very fine tone, yet its actual merit so far exceeded his anticipations as entirely to overwhelm him. The sound issued from it in a volume of such depth and purity as to give an impression of the passages being courted or even of another violin being played at the same time. He had had, of course, no opportunity of practicing during his illness and so expected to find his skill with the bow somewhat diminished, but he perceived on the contrary that his performance was greatly improved and that he was playing with a mastery and feeling of which he had never before been conscious. While attributing this improvement very largely to the beauty of the instrument on which he was performing, yet he could not but believe that by his illness or in some other unexplained way he had actually acquired a greater freedom of wrist and fluency of expression, with which reflection he was not a little elated. He had had a lock fixed on the cupboard in which he had originally found the violin, and here he carefully deposited it on each occasion after playing before he opened the outer door of his room. So the summer term passed away. The examinations had come in their due time and were now over. Both the young men had submitted themselves to the ordeal, and while neither would, of course, have admitted as much to anyone else, both felt secretly that they had no reason to be dissatisfied with their performance. The results would not be published for some weeks to come. The last night of the term had arrived, the last night too of John's Oxford career. It was near nine o'clock but still quite light, and the rich orange glow of sunset had not yet left the sky. The air was warm and sultry as on that eventful evening when just a year ago he had for the first time seen the figure or the illusion of the figure of Adrian Temple. Since that time he had played the aria pagita many, many times, but there had never been any reappearance of that form nor even had the once familiar creaking of the wicker chair ever made itself heard. As he sat alone in his room, thinking with a natural melancholy that he had seen the sun set for the last time on his student life, and reflecting on the possibilities of the future and perhaps on opportunities wasted in the past, the memory of that evening last June recurred strongly to his imagination, and he felt an irresistible impulse to play once more the aria pagita. He unlocked the now familiar cupboard and took out the violin, and never had the exquisite gradations of color in its varnish appear to greater advantage than in the soft mellow light of the fading day. As he began the gogliarda he looked at the wicker chair, half expecting to see a form he well knew seated in it, but nothing of the kind ensued, and he concluded the aria pagita without the occurrence of any unusual phenomenon. It was just at its close that he heard someone knocking at the outer door. He hurriedly locked away the violin and opened the oak. It was Mr. Gaskell. He came in rather awkwardly, as though not sure whether he would be welcomed. Johnny, he began and stopped. The force of ancient habit, sometimes, dear nephew, leads us unwittingly to accost those who were once our friends by a familiar or nickname, long after the intimacy that formerly justified it has vanished. But sometimes we intentionally revert to the use of such a name, not wishing to proclaim openly, as it were, by a more formal address, that we are no longer the friends we once were. I think this latter was the case with Mr. Gaskell as he repeated the familiar name. Johnny, I was passing down College Lane and heard the violin from your open windows. You were playing the aria pagita, and it all sounded so familiar to me that I thought I must come up. I am not interrupting you, am I? No, not at all, John answered. It is the last night of our undergraduate life, the last night we shall meet in Oxford as students. Tomorrow we make our bow to youth and to become men. We have not seen much of each other this term at any rate, and I dare say that it is my fault. But at least let us part as friends. Surely our friends are not so many that we can afford to fling them lightly away. He held out his hand frankly, and his voice trembled a little as he spoke, partly perhaps from real emotion, but more probably from the feeling of reluctance which I have noticed men always exhibit to discovering any sentiment deeper than those usually deemed conventional in correct society. My brother was moved by his obvious wish to renew their former friendship and grasp the proffered hand. There was a minute's pause, and then the conversation was resumed, a little stiffly at first, but more freely afterwards. They spoke on many indifferent subjects, and Mr. Gaskell congratulated John on the prospect of his marriage, of which he had heard. As he at length rose up to take his departure he said, You must have practiced the violin diligently of late, for I never knew any one makes so rapid progress with it as you have done. As I came along I was spellbound by your music. I never before heard you bring from the instrument so exquisite a tone. The corded passages were so powerful that I believed there had been another person playing with you. Your prosenda is certainly a finer instrument than I ever imagined. My brother was pleased with Mr. Gaskell's compliment, and the latter continued, Let me enjoy the pleasure of playing with you once more in Oxford. Let us play the ario paghita. And so saying he opened the piano forte and sat down. John was turning to take out the Stradivarius when he remembered that he had never even revealed its existence to Mr. Gaskell, that if he now produced it an explanation must follow. In a moment his mood changed, and with less geniality he excused himself somewhat awkwardly from complying with the request saying that he was fatigued. Mr. Gaskell was evidently hurt at his friend's altered manner, and without renewing his petition rose at once from the piano forte, and after a little forced conversation took his departure. On leaving he shook my brother by the hand, wished him all prosperity in his marriage and afterlife, and said, Do not entirely forget your old comrade, and remember that if at any time you should stand in need of a true friend you know where to find him. John heard his footsteps echoing down the passage, and made a half involuntary motion towards the door as if to call him back, but did not do so, though he thought over his last words then an unsubsequent occasion. CHAPTER 10 THE SUMMER WAS SPENT BY US IN THE COMPANY OF MISSES TEMPLE AND CONSTANCE, PARTLY AT ROYSTON AND PARTLY AT WORTH MALTRAVERS. John had again hired the cutter yacht Palestine, and the whole party made several expeditions in her. Constance was entirely devoted to her lover. Her life seemed wrapped up in his. She appeared to have no existence except in his presence. I can scarcely enumerate the reasons which prompted such thoughts, but during these months I sometimes found myself wondering if John still returned her affection as ardently as I knew had once been the case. I can certainly call to mind no single circumstance which could justify me in such a suspicion. He performed punctiliously all those thousand little acts of devotion which were expected of an accepted lover. He seemed to take pleasure in perfecting any scheme of enjoyment to amuse her, and yet the impression grew in my mind that he no longer felt the same heart-hold love to her that she bore him, and that he had himself shown six months earlier. I cannot say, my dear Edward, how lively was the grief that even the suspicion of such a fact caused me, and I continually rebuked myself for entertaining for a moment I thought so unworthy, and dismissed it from my mind with reprobation. Alas, ere long it was sure again to make itself felt. We had all seen the Stradivarius violin. Indeed, it was impossible for my brother longer to conceal it from us, as he now played continually on it. He did not recount to us the story of its discovery, contenting himself with saying that he had become possessed of it at Oxford. We imagine, naturally, that he had purchased it, and for this I was sorry, as I feared Mr. Thorsby, his guardian, who had given him some years previously an excellent violin by Prasenda, might feel hurt at seeing his present so unceremoniously laid aside. None of us were at all intimately acquainted with the fancies of fiddle collectors, and were consequently quite ignorant of the enormous value that fashion attached to so splendid an instrument. Even had we known, I do not think that we should have been surprised at John purchasing it, for he had recently come of age, and was in possession of so large a fortune as would amply justify him in such an indulgence had he wished to gratify it. No one, however, could remain unaware of the wonderful musical qualities of the instrument. Its rich and melodious tones would commend themselves even to the most unmusical ear, and formed a subject of constant remark. I noticed also that my brother's knowledge of the violin had improved in a very perceptible manner, for it was impossible to attribute the great beauty and power of his present performance entirely to the excellence of the instrument he was using. He appeared more than ever devoted to the art, and would shut himself up in his room alone for two or more hours together for the purpose of playing the violin, a habit which was a source of sorrow to Constance, for he would never allow her to sit with him on such occasions as she naturally wished to do. So the summer fled. I should have mentioned that in July, after going up to complete the viva both part of their examination, both Mr. Gaskell and John received information that they had obtained first classes. The young men had it appears done excellently well, and both had secured a place in that envied division of the first class, which was called Above the Line. John's success proved a source of much pleasure to us all, and mutual congratulations were freely exchanged. We were pleased also at Mr. Gaskell's high place, remembering the kindness which he had shown us at Oxford in the previous year. I desired to send him my compliments and felicitations when he should next be writing to him. I did not doubt that my brother would return Mr. Gaskell's congratulations which he had already received. He said, however, that his friend had given no address to which he could write, and so the matter dropped. On the first of September, John and Constance's temple were married. The wedding took place at Royston and by John's special desire, with which Constance fully agreed, the ceremony was of a strictly private and unpretentious nature. The newly married pair had determined to spend their honeymoon in Italy and left for the continent in the forenoon. Mrs. Temple invited me to remain with her for the present at Royston, which I was very glad to do, feeling deeply the loss of a favorite brother, and looking forward with dismay to six weeks of loneliness which must elapse before I should again see him and my dearest Constance. We received news of our travelers about a fortnight afterwards, and then heard from them at frequent intervals. Constance rode in the best of spirits and with the keenest appreciation. She had never traveled in Switzerland or Italy before, and all was enchantingly novel to her. They had journeyed through a bale to Lucerne, spending a few days in that delightful spot, and thence proceeding by simplean pass to Lugano and the Italian lakes. Then we heard that they had gone further south than had been at first contemplated. They had reached Rome and were intending to go on to Naples. After the first few weeks, we neither of us received any more letters from John. It was always Constance who wrote, and even her letters grew very much less frequent than had at first been the case. This was perhaps natural, as the business of travel no doubt engrossed their thoughts. But ere long we both perceived that the letters of our dear girl were more constrained and formal than before. It was as if she was writing now rather to comply with a sense of duty than to give vent to the light-hearted gaiety and naïve enjoyment which breathed in every line of her earlier communications. So at last it seemed to us, and again the old suspicion presented itself to my mind, and I feared that all was not as it should be. Naples was to be the turning point of their travels, and we expected them to return to England by the end of October. November had arrived, however, and we still had no intimation that their return journey had commenced or was even decided on. From John there was no word, and Constance wrote less often than ever. John, she said, was enraptured with Naples and its surroundings. He devoted himself much to the violin, and though she did not say so, this meant I knew that she was often left alone. For her own part she did not think that a continued residence in Italy would suit her health. The sudden changes of temperature tried her, and people said that the airs rising in the evening from the bay were unwholesome. Then we received a letter from her which much alarmed us. It was written from Naples and dated October 25. John, she said, had been ailing of late with nervousness and insomnia. On Wednesday, two days before the date of her letter, he had suffered all day from a strange restlessness which increased after they had retired for the evening. He could not sleep and had dressed again, telling her he would walk a little in the night air to compose himself. He had not returned till near six in the morning, and then was so deadly pale and seemed so exhausted that she insisted on his keeping to his bed till she could get medical advice. The doctors feared that he had been attacked by some strange form of malaria fever and said he needed much care. Our anxiety was, however, at least temporarily relieved by the receipt of later tidings which spoke of John's recovery, but November drew to a close without any definite mention of their return having reached us. That month is always, I think, a dreary one in the country. It has neither the brilliant tints of October nor the cozy jollity of midwinter with its Christmas joys to alleviate it. This year it was more gloomy than usual. Incessant rain had marked its close, and the rye, a little brook which skirted the gardens not far from the house, had swollen to unusual proportions. At last one wild night the flood rose so high as to completely cover the garden terraces, working havoc in the parterre, and covering the lawns with a thick coat of mud. Perhaps this gloominess of nature's outer face impressed itself in a sense of apprehension on our spirits, and it was, with a feeling of more than ordinary pleasure and relief, that early in December we received a letter dated from Leon, saying that our travelers were already well advanced on their return journey and expected to be in England a week after the receipt by us of this advice. It was, as usual, Constance, who wrote. John begged, she said, that Christmas might be spent at Worth-Mile Travers, and that we would at once proceed thither to see that all was in order against their return. They reached Worth about the middle of the month, and were, I need not say, received with the utmost affection by Mrs. Temple and myself. In reply to our inquiries, John professed that his health was completely restored. But though we could indeed discern no other signs of any special weakness, we were much shocked by his changed appearance. He had completely lost his old healthy and sunburn complexion, and his face, though not thin or sunken, was strangely pale. Constance assured us that, though in other respects he had apparently recovered, he had never regained his old color from the night of his attack or fever at Naples. I soon perceived that her own spirits were not so bright, as was ordinarily the case with her, and she exhibited none of the eagerness to narrate to others the incidents of travel which is generally observable in those who have recently returned from a journey. The cause of this depression was, alas, not difficult to discover, for John's former abstraction and moodiness seemed to have returned with an increased force. It was a source of infinite pain to Mrs. Temple, and perhaps even more so to me, to observe this sad state of things. Constance never complained, and her affection towards her husband seemed only to increase in the face of difficulties. Yet the matter was one which could not be hid from the anxious eyes of loving kinswomen, and I believe that it was the consciousness that these altered circumstances could not but force themselves upon our notice that added poignancy to my poor sister's grief. While not markedly neglecting her, my brother had evidently ceased to take that pleasure in her company which might reasonably have been expected, in any case under the circumstances of a recent marriage, and a thousand times more so when his wife was so loving and beautiful a creature as Constance Temple. He appeared little except at meals and not even always at lunch, shutting himself up for the most part in his morning-room or study and playing continually on the violin. It was in vain that we attempted even by means of his music to win him back to a sweeter mood. Again and again I begged him to allow me to accompany him on the piano forte, but he would never do so, always putting me off with some excuse. Even when he sat with us in the evening he spoke little, devoting himself for the most part to reading. His books were almost always Greek or Latin so that I am ignorant of the subjects of his study, but he was content that either Constance or I should play on the piano forte, saying that the melody so far from distracting his attention helped him rather to appreciate what he was reading. Constance always begged me to allow her to take her place at the instrument on these occasions and would play to him sometimes for hours without receiving a word of thanks, being eager even in this unreciprocated manner to testify her love and devotion to him. Christmas Day, usually so happy a season, brought no alleviation of our gloom. My brother's reserve continually increased and even his longest established habits appeared changed. He had been always most observant of his religious duties, attending divine service with the utmost regularity whatever the weather might be, and saying that it was a duty a landed proprietor owed as much to his tenetry as himself to set a good example in such matters. Ever since our earliest years he and I had gone morning and afternoon on Sundays to the Little Church of Worth, and there sat together in the Maltraverse Chapel where so many of our name had sat before us. Here their monuments and achievements stood about us on every side, and it had always seemed to me that with their name and property we had inherited also the obligation to continue those acts of piety in the practice of which so many of them had lived and died. It was therefore a source of surprise and great grief to me when on the Sunday after his return my brother omitted all religious observances and did not once attend the parish church. He was not present with us at breakfast, ordering coffee and a roll to be taken to his private sitting-room. At the hour at which we usually set out for church I went to his room to tell him that we were all dressed and waiting for him. I tapped at the door but on trying to enter found it locked. In reply to my message he did not open the door but merely begged us to go on to church saying he would possibly follow us later. We went alone and I sat anxiously in our seat with my eyes fixed on the door, hoping against hope that each latecomer might be John, but he never came. Perhaps this will appear to you, Edward, a comparatively trivial circumstance, though I hope it may not, but I assure you that it brought tears to my eyes. When I sat in the Maltrevers Chapel and thought that for the first time my dear brother had preferred in an open way his convenience or his whim to his duty and had of set purpose neglected to come to the house of God I felt a bitter grief that seemed to rise up in my throat and choke me. I could not think of the meaning of the prayers nor join in the singing, and all the time that Mr. Butler, how our clergyman was preaching, a verse of a little piece of poetry which I learned as a girl was running in my head. How easy are the paths of ill, how steep and hard the upward ways a child can roll the stone downhill that breaks a giant's arm to raise. It seemed to me that our loved one had set his foot upon the downward slope, and that not all the efforts of those who would have given their lives to save him could now hold him back. It was even worse on Christmas day ever since we had been confirmed John and I had always taken the sacrament on that happy morning, and after service he had distributed the Maltraverse doll in our chapel. There are given, as you know, on that day to each of twelve old men five pounds and a green coat and a like sum of money with a blue cloth dress to as many old women. These articles of dress are placed on the altar tomb of Sir Esmond de Maltraverse and have been thence distributed from days immemorial by the head of our house. Ever since he was twelve years old it had been my pride to watch my handsome brother doing this deed of noble charity and to hear the kindly words he added with each gift. Alas, alas, it was all different this Christmas. Even on this holy day my brother did not approach either the altar or the house of God. Till then Christmas had always seemed to me to be a day given us from above that we might see even while on earth a faint glimpse of that serenity and peaceful love which will hereafter gild all days in heaven. Then covetous men lay aside their greed and enemies their rancor, then warm hearts grow warmer and Christians feel their common brotherhood. I can scarcely imagine any man so lost or guilty as not to experience on that day some desire to turn back to the good once more as not to recognize some far-off possibility of better things. It was thoughts free and happy such as these that had previously come into my heart in the service of Christmas day and been particularly associated with the familiar words that we all love so much. But that morning the harmonies were all jangled. It seemed as though some evil spirit was pouring wicked thoughts into my ear and even while children sang Hark the Herald Angels, I thought I could hear through it all a melody which I had learned to loathe the gagliarda of the aureo paguita. Poor Constance, though her veil was down I could see her tears and knew her thoughts must be sadder even than mine. I drew her hand towards me and held it as I would a child's. After the service was over a new trial awaited us. John had made no arrangement for the distribution of the doll. The coats and dresses were all piled ready on Sir Esmond's tomb and there lay the little leather pouches of money. But there was no one to give them away. Mr. Butler looked puzzled and approaching us said he feared Sir John was ill. Had he made no provision for the distribution? Pride kept back the tears which were rising fast and I said my brother was indeed unwell and that it would be better for Mr. Butler to give away the doll and that Sir John would himself visit the recipients during the week. Then we hurried away, not daring to watch the distribution of the doll lest we should no longer be able to master our feelings and should openly betray our agitation. From one another we no longer attempted to conceal our grief. It seemed as though we had all at once resolved to abandon the farce of pretending not to notice John's estrangement from his wife or of explaining away his neglectful and unaccountable treatment of her. I do not think that three poor women were ever so sad on Christmas Day before as were we on our return from church that morning. None of us had seen my brother, but about five in the afternoon Constance went to his room and through the locked door begged piteously to see him. After a few minutes he complied with her request and opened the door. The exact circumstances of that interview she never revealed to me, but I knew from her manner when she returned that something she had seen or heard had both grieved and frightened her. She told me only that she had flung herself in an agony of tears at his feet and kneeling there, weary and broken hearted, had begged him to tell her if she had done ought a miss and prayed him to give her back his love. To all this he answered little, but her entreaties had at least such an effect as to induce him to take his dinner with us that evening. At that meal we tried to put aside our gloom, and with faint smiles and cheerful voices from which the tears were hardly banished, sustained a weary show of conversation, and tried to wile away his evil mood. But he spoke little, and when foster, my father's butler, put on the table the three-handled Maltrever's loving cup that he had brought up Christmas by Christmas for thirty years, my brother merely passed it by without a taste. I saw, by Foster's face, that the master's malady was no longer a secret even from the servants. I shall not harass my own feelings nor yours, my dear Edward, by entering into further details of your father's illness, for such it was obvious his indisposition had become. It was the only consolation, and that was a sorry one, that we could use with Constance to persuade her that John's estrangement from her was merely the result or manifestation of some physical infirmity. He obviously grew worse from week to week, and his treatment of his wife became colder and more callous. We had used all efforts to persuade him to take a change of air, to go to Royston for a month, and place himself under the care of Dr. Dobie. Mrs. Temple had even gone so far as to write privately to this physician, telling him as much of the case as was prudent, and asking his advice. Not being aware of the darker sides of my brother's ailment, Dr. Dobie replied in a less serious strain and seemed to us convenient, but recommended in any case a complete change of air and scene. It was, therefore, with no ordinary pleasure and relief that we heard my brother announce, quite unexpectedly one morning in March, that he had made up his mind to seek change, and was going to leave almost immediately for the continent. He took his valet, parnam, with him, and quitted worth one morning before lunch, bidding us an unceremonious adieu, though he kissed Constance with some apparent tenderness. It was the first time for three months she confessed to me afterwards that he had shown her even so ordinary a mark of affection, and her wounded heart treasured up what she hoped would prove a token of returning love. He had not proposed to take her with him, and even had he done so we should have been reluctant to assent, as signs were not wanting that it might have been imprudent for her to undertake foreign travel at that period. For nearly a month we had no word of him. Then he wrote a short note to Constance from Naples, giving no news and, indeed, scarce speaking of himself at all, but mentioning, as an address to which she might ride, if she wished, the villa d'Angelis at Pocellipol. Though his letter was cold and empty, yet Constance was delighted to get it, and wrote henceforth herself nearly every day, pouring out her heart to him, and retelling such news as she thought would cheer him. A month later Mrs. Temple wrote to John, warning him of the state in which Constance now found herself, and begging him to return at least for a few weeks in order that he might be present at the time of her confinement. Though it would have been in the last degree unkind, or even inhuman, that a request of this sort should have been refused, yet I will confess to you that my brother's recent strangeness had prepared me for behavior on his part, however wild. And it was with a feeling of extreme relief that I heard from Mrs. Temple a little later that she had received a short note from John to say that he was already on his return journey. I believe Mrs. Temple herself felt, as I did in the matter, though she said nothing. When he returned we were all at Royston, with her Mrs. Temple had taken Constance to be under Dr. Dobie's care. We found John's physical appearance changed for the worse. His power was as remarkable as before, but he was visibly thinner, and his strange mental abstraction and moodiness seemed little if any abated. At first indeed he greeted Constance kindly or even affectionately. She had been in a terrible state of anxiety as to the attitude he would assume towards her, and this mental strain affected prejudicially her very delicate bodily condition. His kindness of an ordinary enough nature indeed seemed to her yearning heart a miracle of condescending love, and she was transported with the idea that his affection to her, once so sincere, was indeed returning. But I grieved to say that his manner thawed only for a very short time, and ere long he relapsed into an attitude of complete indifference. It was as if his real true honest and loving character had made one more vigorous effort to assert itself, as though it had for a moment broken through the hard and selfish crust that was forming around him. But the blighting influence which was at work proved seemingly too strong for him to struggle against, and riveted its chains again upon him with a weight heavier than before. That there was some malific influence, mental or physical, thus working on him, no one who had known him before could for a moment doubt. But while Mrs. Temple and I readily admitted this much, we were entirely unable even to form a conjecture as to its nature. It is true that Mrs. Temple's fancy suggested that Constance had some rival in his affections, but we rejected such a theory almost before it was proposed, feeling that it was inherently improbable, and that had it been true we could not have remained entirely unaware of the circumstances which had conduced to such a state of things. It was this inexplicable nature of my brother's affliction that added immeasurably to our grief. If we could only have ascertained its cause, we might have combated it. But as it was, we were fighting in the dark, as against some enemy who was assaulting us from an obscurity so thick that we could not see his form. Of any mental trouble, we thus knew nothing, nor could we say that my brother was suffering from any definite physical ailment except that he was certainly growing thinner. Your birth, my dear Edward, followed very shortly. Your poor mother rallied in an unusually short time, and was filled with rapture at the new treasure which was thus given as a solace to her afflictions. Your father exhibited little interest at the event, though he sat nearly half an hour with her one evening, and allowed her even to stroke his hair and caress him as in time long past. Although it was now the height of summer, he seldom left the house, sitting much and sleeping in his own room, where he had a field bed provided for him, and continually devoting himself to the violin. One evening, near the end of July, we were sitting after dinner in the drawing-room at Royston, having the French windows looking on to the lawn open, as the air was still oppressively warm. Though things were proceeding as indifferently as before, we were perhaps less cast down than usual, for John had taken his dinner with us that evening. This was a circumstance now alas sufficiently uncommon, for he had nearly all his meals served for him in his own rooms. Constance, who was once more downstairs, sat playing at the Piano Forte, performing chiefly melodies by Scarlatti or Bach, of which old-fashioned music she knew her husband to be most fond. A later fashion, as you know, has revived the cultivation of these composers, but at the time of which I write, their works were much less commonly known. Though she was more than a passable musician, he would not allow her to accompany him. Indeed, he never now performed at all on the violin before us, reserving his practice entirely for his own chamber. There was a pause in the music while coffee was served. My brother had been sitting in an easy chair apart reading some classical work during his wife's performance and taking little notice of us. But after a while he put down his book and said, Constance, if you will accompany me, I will get my violin and play a little while. I cannot say how much his words astonished us. It was so simple a matter for him to say, and yet it filled us all with an unspeakable joy. We concealed our emotion till he had left the room to get his instrument. Then Constance showed how deeply she was gratified by kissing first her mother and then me, squeezing my hand but saying nothing. In a minute he returned, bringing his violin and a music book. By the soiled vellum cover and the shape I perceived instantly that it was the book containing the aureo pagida. I had not seen it for near two years and was not even aware that it was in the house, but I knew at once that he intended to play that sweet. I entertained an unreasoning but profound aversion to its melodies, but at that moment I would have welcomed warmly that or any other music so that he would only choose once more to show some thought for his neglected wife. He put the book open at the aureo pagida on the desk of the piano forte and asked her to play it with him. She had never seen the music before, though I believe she was not unacquainted with the melody as she had heard him playing it by himself and once heard it was not easily forgotten. They began the aureo pagida sweet and at first all went well. The tone of the violin and also I may say with no undue partiality my brother's performance were so marvelously fine that though our thoughts were elsewhere when the music commenced in a few seconds they were wholly engrossed in the melody and we sat spellbound. It was as if the violin had become suddenly endowed with life and was singing to us in a mystical language more deep and awful than any human words. Constance was comparatively unused to the figuring of the basso continual and found some trouble in reading it accurately, especially in manuscript, but she was able to mask any difficulty she may have had until she came to the Gagliarda. Here she confessed to me her thoughts seemed against her will to wander and her attention became too deeply riveted on her husband's performance to allow her to watch her own. She made first one slight fault and then growing nervous another and another. Suddenly John stopped and said abruptly let Sophie play, I cannot keep time with you. Poor Constance, the tears came swiftly to my own eyes when I heard him speak so thoughtlessly to her and I was almost provoked to rebuke him openly. She was still weak from her recent illness. Her nerves were excited by the unusual pleasure she felt in playing once more with her husband and this sudden shattering of her hopes of a renewed tenderness proved more than she could bear. She put her head between her hands upon the keyboard and broke into a paroxysm of tears. We both ran to her, but while we were attempting to assuage her grief, John shut his violin into its case, took the music book under his arm and left the room without saying a word to any of us, not even to the weeping girl whose sob seemed as though they would break her heart. We got her put to bed at once, but it was some hours before her convulsive sobbing ceased. Mrs. Temple had administered to her a soothing draft of proved efficacy and after sitting with her till after one o'clock I left her at last dozing off to sleep and myself sought repose. I was quite worried out with the weight of my anxiety and with the crushing bitterness of seeing my dearest constance's feelings so wounded. Yet in spite, or rather perhaps on account of my trouble, my head had scarcely touched my pillow ere I fell into a deep sleep. A room in the south wing had been converted for the nonce into a nursery and for the convenience of being near her infant, Constance now slept in a room adjoining. As this portion of the house was somewhat isolated, Mrs. Temple had suggested that I should keep her daughter company and occupy a room in the same passage, only removed a few doors. At this I had accordingly done. I was aroused from my sleep that night by someone knocking gently on the door of my bedroom, but it was some seconds before my thoughts became sufficiently awake to allow me to remember where I was. There was some moonlight, but I lighted a candle and looking at my watch saw that it was two o'clock. I concluded that either Constance or her baby was unwell and that the nurse needed my assistance. So I left my bed and, moving to the door, asked softly who was there. It was, to my surprise, the voice of Constance that replied, "'Oh, Sophie, let me in.' In a second I had opened the door and found my poor sister wearing only her night-dress and standing in the moonlight before me. She looked frightened and unusually pale in her white dress and with the cold gleam of the moon upon her. At first I thought she was walking in her sleep and perhaps rehearsing again in her dreams the troubles which dogged her waking footsteps. I took her gently by the arm, saying, "'Dearest Constance, come back at once to bed. You will take cold.' She was not asleep, however, but made a motion of silence and said in a terrified whisper, "'Hush! Do you hear nothing?' There was something so vague and yet so mysterious in the question and in her evident perturbation that I was infected too by her alarm. I felt myself shiver as I strained my ear to catch, if possible, the slightest sound. But a complete silence pervaded everything. I could hear nothing. "'Can you hear it?' she said again. All sorts of images of ill resented themselves to my imagination. I thought the baby might be ill with croup and that she was listening for some statorious breath of anguish. And then the dread came over me that perhaps her sorrows had been too much for her and that reason had left her seat. At that thought, then, marrow froze in my bones. "'Hush!' she said again. And just at that moment, as I strained my ears, I thought I caught upon the sleeping air a distant and very faint murmur. "'Oh, what is it, Constance?' I said. "'You will drive me mad.' And while I spoke, the murmur seemed to resolve itself into the vibration, felt almost rather than heard of some distant musical instrument. I stepped past her into the passage. All was deadly still. But I could perceive that music was being played somewhere far away, and almost at the same minute my ears recognized faintly but unmistakably the gagliarda of the aureo paguita. I have already mentioned that for some reason which I can scarcely explain, this melody was very repugnant to me. It seemed associated in some strange and intimate way with my brother's indisposition and moral decline. Almost at the moment that I had heard it first two years ago, peace seemed to have risen up and left our house, gathering her skirts about her as we read that the angels left the temple at the siege of Jerusalem. And now it was even more detestable to my ears, recalling as it did too vividly the cruel events of the preceding evening. "'John must be sitting up playing,' I said. "'Yes,' she answered. "'But why is he in this part of the house, and why does he always play that tune? It was if some irresistible attraction drew us towards the music. Constance took my hand in hers, and we moved together slowly down the passage. The wind had risen, and though there was a bright moon, her beams were constantly eclipsed by driving clouds. Still there was light enough to guide us, and I extinguished the candle. As we reached the end of the passage, the air of the gagliarda grew more and more distinct. Our passage opened on to a broad landing with a balustrade, and from one side of it ran out the picture gallery, which you know. I looked at Constance significantly. It was evident that John was playing in this gallery. We crossed the landing, treading carefully, and making no noise with our naked feet, for both of us had been too excited even to think of putting on shoes. We could now see the whole length of the gallery. My poor brother sat in the orial window of which I had before spoken. He was sitting so as to face the picture of Adrian Temple, and the great windows of the orial flung a strong light on him. At times a cloud hid the moon and all was plunged into darkness, but in a moment the cold light fell full on him, and we could trace every feature as in a picture. He had evidently not been to bed, for he was fully dressed exactly as he had left us in the drawing room five hours earlier when Constance was weeping over his thoughtless words. He was playing the violin, playing with a passion and reckless energy which I had never seen and hoped never to see again. Perhaps he remembered that this spot was far removed from the rest of the house, or perhaps he was careless whether any were awake and listening to him or not. But it seemed to me that he was playing with a sonorous strength greater than I had thought possible for a single violin. There came from his instrument such a volume and torrent of melody as to fill the gallery so full as it were of sound that it throbbed and vibrated again. He kept his eyes fixed on something at the opposite side of the gallery. We could not indeed see on what, but I have no doubt at all that it was the portrait of Adrian Temple. His gaze was eager and expectant as though he were waiting for something to occur, which did not. I knew that he had been growing thin of late, but this was the first time I had realized how sunk were the hollows of his eyes and how haggard his features had become. It may have been some effective moonlight which I do not well understand, but his fine cut face, once so handsome, looked on this night, worn and thin like that of an old man. He never for a moment ceased playing. It was always one same dreadful melody, the gagliarda of the aria opighita, and he repeated it time after time with the perseverance and apparent aimlessness of an automaton. He did not see us, and we made no sign, standing afar off in silent horror at that nocturnal sight. Constance clutched me by the arm. She was so pale that I perceived it even in the moonlight. Sophie, she said, he is sitting in the same place as on the first night when he told me how he loved me. I could answer nothing. My voice was frozen in me. I could only stare at my brother's poor withered face, realizing then for the first time that he must be mad, and that it was the haunting of the gagliarda that had made him so. We stood there, I believe, for half an hour without speech or motion, and all the time that sad figure at the end of the gallery continued its performance. Suddenly he stopped, and an expression of frantic despair came over his face as he laid down the violin and buried his head in his hands. I could bear it no longer. Constance, I said, come back to bed. We can do nothing, so we turned and crept away silently as we had come. Only as we crossed the landing, Constance stopped and looked back for a minute with a heart broken yearning at the man she loved. He had taken his hands from his head, and she saw the profile of his face clear-cut and hard in the white moonlight. It was the last time her eyes ever looked upon it. She made for a moment as if she would turn back and go to him. But her courage failed her, and we went on. Before we reached her room we heard in the distance faintly but distinctly the burden of the gagliarda. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Lost Strativarius This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ralph Nelson The Lost Strativarius by John Meade Faulkner, Chapter 12 The next morning my maid brought me a hurried note written in pencil by my brother. It contained only a few lines, saying that he found that his continued sojourn at Royston was not beneficial to his health, and had determined to return to Italy. If we wished to write, letters would reach him at the Villa d'Angeles. His valet, Parnum, was to follow him thither with his baggage as soon as it could be got together. This was all. There was no word of a due, even to his wife. We found that he had never gone to bed that night, but in the early morning he had himself saddled his horse sentinel and ridden in to Derby, taking the early mail thence to London. His resolve to leave Royston had apparently been rived at very suddenly. For so far as we could discover, he had carried no luggage of any kind. I could not help looking somewhat carefully around his room to see if he had taken the Strativarius violin. No trace of it, or even of its case, was to be seen. Though it was difficult to imagine how he could have carried it with him on horseback, there was indeed a locked traveling trunk which Parnum was to bring with him later, and the instrument might, of course, have been in that. But I felt convinced that he had actually taken it with him in some way or other, and this proved afterwards to have been the case. I shall draw a veil, my dear Edward, over the events which immediately followed your father's departure. Even at this distance of time the memory is too inexpressably bitter to allow me to do more than briefly allude to them. A fortnight after John's departure we left Royston and removed to Worth, wishing to get some sea air and to enjoy the late summer of the south coast. Your mother seemed entirely to have recovered from her confinement, and to be enjoying as good help as could be reasonably expected under the circumstances of her husband's indisposition. But suddenly one of those insidious maladies which are incidental to women in her conditions seized upon her. We had hoped and believed that all such period of danger was already happily passed, but alas it was not so, and within a few hours of her first seizure all realized how serious was her case. Everything that human skill can do under such conditions was done, but without a veil. Symptoms of blood poisoning showed themselves accompanied with high fever, and within a week she was in her coffin. Though her delirium was terrible to watch, yet I thank God to this day that if she was to die it pleased him to take her while in an unconscious condition. For two days before her death she recognized no one, and was thus spared at least the sadness of passing from life without one word of kindness or even of reconciliation from her unhappy husband. The communication with a place so distant as Naples was not then to be made under fifteen or twenty days, and all was over before we could hope that the intelligence even of his wife's illness had reached John. Both Mrs. Temple and I remained at worth in a state of complete frustration awaiting his return. When more than a month had passed without his arrival, or even a letter to say that he was on his way, our anxiety took a new turn, as we feared that some accident had befallen him, or that the news of his wife's death which would then be in his hands had so seriously affected him as to render him incapable of taking any action. To repeated subsequent communications we received no answer. But at last, to a letter which I wrote to Parnham, the servant replied, stating that his master was still at the villa de Angelis, and in a condition of health little differing from that in which he left Royston, except that he was now slightly paler, if possible, and thinner. It was not till the end of November that any word came from him, and then he wrote only one page of a sheet of note paper to me in pencil, making no reference whatever to his wife's death, but saying that he should not return for Christmas and instructing me to draw on his bankers for any monies that I might require for household purposes at work. I need not tell you the effect that such conduct produced on Mrs. Temple and myself. You can easily imagine what would have been your own feelings in such a case. Nor will I relate any other circumstances which occurred at this period as they would have no direct bearing upon my narrative. Though I still wrote to my brother at frequent intervals as not wishing to neglect a duty, no word from him ever came in reply. About the end of March, indeed, Parnham returned to Worth Maltrevers, saying that his master had paid him a half year's wages in advance and then dispensed with his services. He had always been an excellent servant and attached to the family, and I was glad to be able to offer him a suitable position with us at Worth until his master should return. He brought disquieting reports of John's health, saying that he was growing visibly weaker. Though I was sorely tempted to ask him many questions as to his master's habits and way of life, my pride forbade me to do so. But I heard incidentally from my maid that Parnham had told her Sir John was spending money freely in alterations at the Villa de Angeles and had engaged Italians to attend him with which his English valet was naturally much dissatisfied. So the spring passed and the summer was well advanced. On the last morning of July I found waiting for me on the breakfast table an envelope addressed in my brother's hand. I opened it hastily. It only contained a few words, which I have before me as I write now. The ink is a little faded and yellow, but the impression it made is yet vivid as on that summer morning. My dearest Sophie, it began, come to me here at once, if possible, or it may be too late. I want to see you. They say that I am ill and too weak to travel to England. Your loving brother, John, there was a great change in the style from the cold and conventional notes that he had hitherto sand at such long intervals. From the stiff, dear Sophia, and sincerely yours, to which I grieved to say I had grown accustomed, even the writing itself was altered. It was more the bold, boyish hand he wrote when first he went to Oxford than the smaller cramped and classic character of his later years. Though it was a little matter enough, God knows, in comparison with his grievous conduct, yet it touched me much that he should use again the once familiar dearest Sophie and sign himself my loving brother. I felt my heart go out towards him, and so strong is woman's affection for her own kin, that I had already forgotten any resentment and reprobation in my great pity for the poor wanderer lying sick perhaps unto death and alone in a foreign land. I took this note at once to Mrs. Temple. She read it twice or thrice, trying to take in the meaning of it. Then she drew me to her and kissing me said, Go to him at once, Sophie. Bring him back to worth. Try to bring him back to the right way. I ordered my things to be packed, determining to drive to Southampton and take train thence to London, and at the same time Mrs. Temple gave instructions that all should be prepared for her own return to Royston within a few days. I knew she did not dare to see John after her daughter's death. I took my maid with me and Parnham to act as courier. At London we hired a carriage for the whole journey, and from Kali posted direct to Naples. We took the short route by Marseille and Genoa, and traveled for seventeen days without intermission, as my brother's note made me desirous of losing no time on the way. I had never been in Italy before, but my anxiety was such that my mind was unable to appreciate either the beauty of the scenery or the incidents of travel. I can in fact remember nothing of our journey now, except the wearisome and interminable jolting over bad robes and the insufferable heat. It was the middle of August in an exceptionally warm summer, and after passing Genoa the heat became almost tropical. There was no relief even at night, for the warm air hung stagnant and suffocating, and the inside of my traveling coach was often like a furnace. We were at last approaching the conclusion of our journey, and had left Rome behind us. The day that we set out from Aversa was the hottest that I have ever felt, the sun beating down with an astonishing power, even in the early hours, and the road being thick with a white and blinding dust. It was soon after midnight that our carriage began rattling over the great stone blocks with which the streets of Naples are paved. The suburbs that we at first passed through were, I remember, in darkness and perfect quiet. But after traversing the heart of the city and reaching the western side, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of an enormous and very dense crowd. There were lanterns everywhere, and interminable lanes of booths, whose proprietors were praising their wares with loud shouts, and here acrobats, jugglers, minstrels, black-bested priests, and blue-coated soldiers mingled with a vast crowd whose numbers at once arrested the progress of the carriage. Though it was so late of a Sunday night, all seemed here awake and busy as at noonday. Oil lamps with reeking fumes of black smoke flung a glare over the scene, and the discordant cries and chattering conversation united in so deafening a noise as to make me turn faint and giddy, worried as I already was with long traveling. Though I felt that intense eagerness and expectation, which the approaching termination of a tedious journey inspires, and was desirous of pushing forward with all imaginable dispatch, yet here our course was sadly delayed. The horses could only proceed at the slowest of footpaces, and we were constantly brought to a complete stop for some minutes before the post-boy could force a passage through the unwilling crowd. This produced a feeling of irritation and despair of ever reaching my destination, and the mirth and careless hilarity of the people round us chafed with bitter contrast on my depressed spirits. I inquired from the post-boy what was the origin of so great a commotion and understood him to say in reply that it was a religious festival held annually in honor of Our Lady of the Grotto. I cannot, however, conceive of any truly religious person countenance seem such a gathering, which seemed to me rather like the unclean orgies of a heathen deity than an act of faith of Christian people. This disturbance occasioned us so serious a delay that as we were climbing the steep slope leading up to Pusillopol it was already three in the morning, and the dawn was at hand. After mounting steadily for a long time we began to rapidly descend, and just as the sun came up over the sea we arrived at the Villa di Angelis. I sprang from the carriage and passing through a trellis of vines reached the house. A man-servant was in waiting and held the door open for me, but he was an Italian and did not understand me when I asked in English where Sir John Maltraverse was. He had evidently, however, received instructions to take me at once to my brother and led the way to an inner part of the house. As we proceeded I heard the sound of a rich alto-boy singing very sweetly to a mandolin, some soothing or religious melody. The servant pulled aside a heavy curtain and I found myself in my brother's room. An Italian youth sat on a stool near the door, and it was he who had been singing. At a few words from John addressed to him in his own language he sat down his mandolin and left the room, pulling to the curtain and shutting a door behind it. The room looked directly on to the sea. The villa was, in fact, built upon rocks at the foot of which the waves lapped. Through two folding windows which opened on to a balcony, the early light of the summer morning streamed in with a rosy flush. My brother sat on a low couch or sofa propped up against a heap of pillows with a rug of brilliant colors flung across his feet and legs. He held out his arms to me and I ran to him, but even in so brief an interval I had perceived that he was terribly weak and wasted. All my memories of his past faults had vanished and were dead in that sad aspect of his worn features and in the conviction which I felt even from the first moment that he had but little time longer to remain with us. I knelt by him on the floor, and with my arms round his neck embraced him tenderly, not finding any place for words, but only sobbing in great anguish. Neither of us spoke, and my weariness from long travel and the strangeness of the situation caused me to feel that paralyzing sensation of doubt as to the reality of the scene and even of my own existence which all I believe have experienced at times of severe mental tension. But I, a plain English girl, should be kneeling here beside my brother in the Italian dawn, but I should read as I believed on his young face the unmistakable image and superscription of death, and reflect that within so few months he had married, had wrecked his home, that my poor constants was no more. These things seem so unrealizable that for a minute I felt that it must all be a nightmare. But I should immediately wake with fresh salt hair of the channel blowing through my bedroom window at worth, and find I had been dreaming, but it was not so. The light of day grew stronger and brighter, and even in my sorrow the panorama of the most beautiful spot on earth, the bay of Naples, with Bessuvius lying on the far side, as seen then from these windows stamped itself forever on my mind. It was unreal as a scene in some brilliant dramatic spectacle, but alas, no unreality was here. The flames of the candles in their silver sconces waxed paler and paler, the lines and shadows on my brother's face grew darker, and the power of his wasted features showed more striking in the bright rays of the morning sun.